


Swearing

by exeterlinden



Category: due South
Genre: Dirty Talk, First Time, Humor, Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-07
Updated: 2005-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-05 14:42:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exeterlinden/pseuds/exeterlinden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were only so many ways you could make Fraser talk dirty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swearing

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Shayheyred for betaing!

There were only so many ways you could make Fraser talk dirty.

The discovery that it was even humanly possible to make him swear was what propelled all of this crazy shit into happening.

Ray'd felt attracted to Fraser pretty much from the beginning, but it'd been creeping in on him so slowly it didn't really register - and if that was a cliché, then at least it was true.

It started out as a relatively harmless: _Huh. Good looking guy_, but five months later it was moving into the shadier territory of grabbing every chance to check out the Mountie's ass… A routine that soon grew too old to feel embarrassing.

In the beginning there was an insistent whiny voice in his head going _But I was married!_ but then he realized that that meant fuck all when your dick got hard from seeing the Mountie in long johns.

And really, if you had to feel attracted to another man, Fraser was the obvious choice. You just had to look at him: The man was almost beautiful, smooth skin and muscle and thick hair and great lips and, yeah.

An old style movie star kinda look that Ray wouldn't have thought he'd like, but then he hadn't thought he was really into guys so _way to go, sexual identity_.

It wasn't like Ray was the only one either; in his relatively short time partnering with Fraser he had experienced Elvis Presley-meets–the-fans-like situations whenever they ventured into the gay community (always strictly business, of course), and several straight, sometimes married, guys with "Gay for the Mountie!" practically tattooed on their foreheads.

And the good thing about Fraser was that, most times, he was completely oblivious to the fact that people were attracted to him, or even that people were hitting on him - he'd just thank them kindly and be on his merry way pursuing justice.

There was another upside to the whole bisexual deal: For the first time in years, he had someone who took up his thoughts more than Stella. And Fraser even liked him and was nice to him, so double bonus, there.

It was probably the whole opposites attract thing happening all over again, like last time. This time, though, he thought his head had sobered up even if is his dick was still dumb as fuck.

Yeah he liked Fraser, liked him a lot, but Fraser was a bad idea. Because they we’re different enough that it’d be potatoes and poh-tah-toes all over again, and still they were alike in the one way that meant split lips and insults and secrets.

Anyway, he was handling it, he was fine about it, he could deal. For the first time maybe in his life, he was gonna just leave things the way they were, because things were _fine_. He wasn't gonna rush into something stupid, he was too old for groping other guys awkwardly in the locker room, and this was _Fraser_, and Fraser was his _straight cop partner_.

So he was figuring out ways to leave it at home, keep it away from work and dinner and hockey with Fraser, and he was getting the hang of it – it mainly involved lots of porn and Astroglide and a good deal of repression.

Maybe he jerked off a little more than he used to, but apart from occasional soreness, and the wear and tear on his porn videos, why was that a bad thing?

If he couldn’t get Fraser out of his jerk off fantasies, he _could_ slap him on the shoulder and be buddies the next day.

So he was feeling on top of things, he was actually pretty fucking proud of being ok with wanting Fraser, made him feel all cultural and avant-garde and all that stuff that Stella insisted he wasn't.

Yeah, he was playing it cool, even if Fraser was making him hot.

Until he made Fraser say a four-letter word and simultaneously set a new personal record to getting hard _fast_.

The first one he got easy, or at least he got the first one without deliberately working towards it, because he had been bugging the hell out of Fraser for nearly six months without knowing that it might have rewards.

Whining. Whining and bitching apparently got under Fraser's skin, eventually.

Which he should have guessed, because this was the tried and tested way. This was the way he had made Stella drop her _Ray,_ _honestly_s and replace them with _Fuck you, Ray_s, not that he had been trying… Well, maybe he had been trying a little, in a way, because that way at least she wasn’t talking down to him.

Whining maybe wasn't very manly, but it worked like a charm. It had worked on his mom when he was three and since then he'd only met a select few that were immune to his perfected Kowalski whine, so he figured why stop at now at thirty-six?

For quite a while and with some regret he counted Fraser among the thick skinned few, but then he began noticing the way the Mountie scratched his eyebrow or held his breath or looked away – and thought _Heh, got you, sucker. _

They'd parked the car a few blocks back and were walking towards Claude's Cakes &amp; Confectionaries because Fraser wouldn't give up on the thought that something queer – strange – was going on at the bakery and that someone other than Claude Blanc or his employees was responsible for the Lactulose in his bakery products.

Problem was, they had to get up at fucking four o'clock am to sneak into the bakery and, from a hidden position that Fraser had spotted the first time they investigated the bakery, watch Blanc and two helpers bake five four-layered wedding cakes with marzipan roses.

Which pissed him off.

Fraser had insisted on parking eight blocks away not to be seen. They were now walking down the sixth, and Ray hadn't shut up for more than twenty seconds at a time, and only to chew and swallow a stale, overpriced bagel.

He was more or less on autopilot at this point, watching the cars that went by and eating his bagel and drinking coffee and maintaining his view that this was a stupid idea all at the same time.

"Come on, Fraser! This is D-U-M, dum!"

"It is not dumb," Fraser was fucking pronouncing the B, the fucker.

" - It is pursuing justice, which as officers of the law is our duty." He scratched his eyebrow.

"Fraser, it's bakery products."

"It is the potential terrorism of the most important day in the lives of ten young people in love." The man was holding his breath.

"Ten young people in love? That's, whatchemacallit, biganism, that's illegal Fraser. Go arrest _them_ and let me get back to bed."

Fraser didn't answer that. He looked away and walked a little faster.

And right there and then, Ray could feel it somehow, that something was gonna happen this time, something – quoting Sinatra - was gonna give.

He felt like that split second your car stands completely still on the top of the highest hill on the rollercoaster.

A decent person might have shut up at that point, but Ray took a couple of running steps to catch up with Fraser, and kept right on going with a giddy _whoopee_ in the back of his mind.

"C'mon Fraser, Blanc knows his wife is screwing around with the florist, he's depressed and bitter and all of a sudden his icing is fifty percent laxatives. I spy a motive."

Fraser stopped and ran a thumb across his left brow, let out a deep breath and looked up the depressingly grey Chicago sky.

Then he sent shot Ray a glare of a never-before-seen intensity.

"For goodness sake, Ray! Could you not - just this once - comply with me without fighting me every _damn_ step of the way?!"

Ooh, dirty mouthed Fraser. Hello, stranger. Hello, erection.

Ray almost dropped his crappy bagel.

This was great. This was greatness. So not only was he bisexual, he was bisexual with a kink.

…And as it turned out, Claude Blanc really was guilty, the dumb fuck, but Ray's snide remarks about it didn't get another _Damn_ out of Fraser, which maybe would have been more than his nervous system could handle anyway.

But man, was he _hooked_.

Of course he’d known, but he hadn’t really _realized_ till then that what Fraser thought and what he said were probably two very different things, and that _Thank you kindly_ actually sometimes meant _Screw you sideways_.

Kind of embarrassing that it took him so long to figure that one out, considering he’d been married to _What I say and what I do are two different_ _planets_ for nearly fifteen years, but hey.

Now, every time Fraser opened his mouth Ray could practically see the mechanics of his brain working to phrase everything correctly, politely.

Not exactly an ability he had ever possessed himself. First thing he was thinking - or even before he'd thought it - it'd be out there ("Hey Stan-lee, why are you so skinny?" - "Because I puke every time I see your mom, Johnson." Cue getting his skinny twelve-year-old ass kicked. Or "Ray, I want a divorce" – "No, please Stella. I'm fucked without you," cue humiliation. And so on and so forth.)

Oh, he was getting better. Because he had to; because he couldn't answer "I am still hurt and angry and half way in love with you," to Stella's: "How are you, Ray?" and he couldn't say "Because I want to hear you swear again, because it turns me on," to Fraser's: "For God's sake, why do you insist on contradicting me in everything I say?"

But Fraser. Fraser always spoke in full, grammatically correct sentences. Fraser never ran his mouth. Fraser was the fucking Canadian Prime Minister of well-considered.

Ray was fairly certain, at this point, that Fraser was doing it on purpose. The way he talked you'd think that he'd just arrived from the royal court of England, or a monastery, or space or something.

He got that growing up in the middle of nowhere with an absent father and two librarian grandparents explained some of it, but come on, Fraser was too smart to be _that_ naive. And Ray, of course, had been too dumb to realize.

Kind of fascinating and kind of scary to figure out that there had to be heaps of stuff behind Fraser's politeness that he never showed anyone.

Here in Chicago people only saw the Canadian, the stereotype, and at first Ray had felt sorry for Fraser, because nobody ever really took the time to get to know him. But now, he was more and more getting the feeling that Fraser was perfectly aware of it, that he was playing it to his benefit and using it to hide behind.

That there was a three-dimensional, _really fucking complex_ person inside the Mountie suit. Not just laws and rules and odd Northwest Area anecdotes, but imperfections, anger, insecurities… all that good stuff that made people real.

Why did most people spend so much time trying to hide it? Ray, he could never hide any of it, didn't want to hide any of it…

It'd been the same deal with Stella: She only wanted people to see the clever, competent, no-nonsense state attorney, but Ray knew that she always started crying when she was really pissed off, and got even angrier if you were stupid enough to try and comfort her. And he remembered how right until the end, she always wanted to fuck when they'd fought.

And now he knew that there was at least one way you could make Fraser drop the Canadianisms.

Ray couldn't really figure out - didn't really spend much time trying to figure out - whether it was normal to get off on that kind of stuff. But, oh boy, in his head, that was just waving a carrot in front of a very hungry bunny.

 

He only found out by accident about the touching thing, groping thing – whatever you wanted to call it.

But, _Eureka, _because making Fraser annoyed enough to swear was a lot of fucking work, and maybe wasn't all that healthy to their partnership either, not that Ray could stop if it wasn't.

They were locked inside an industrial container for reasons that didn't need exploring at that juncture, and frankly were a little embarrassing.

Ray was freaking out because outside the container they could hear the crane working to lift them and they were moving and if they didn't do something quick they'd be on a cruise to La Isla de Corruption with more than a hundred seamen and half a ton of pure heroin for company.

Plus it was pitch black in there and though he was half ways to blind anyway, according to Fraser, he was really freaked out about not being able to see.

Fraser, of course, could see just fine. Fraser was down in the other end of the container doing something clever and heroic, probably, and Ray was trying to find him in the dark and not panic, with his hands stretched out in front of him, trying to be quiet too, because if Cucho and his men found out that they were in there Ray predicted a very long and very painful boat trip.

So he was walking with his arms stretched out, trying not to knock anything over or walk into something and he walked into Fraser at the same moment the crane lifted them off the ground and tilted the container so that they fell down, softly on the plastic wrapped parcels of china white.

The container righted itself and they were lying there listening to the whirring sound of the crane lifting them up and up.

His hands were on Fraser's chest and he was sort of straddling the guy. They kept still for a second and his face was close enough to Fraser's that he could hear that very soft exclamation "Fuck!" barely articulated but definitely there.

And then the container dipped once more, and this time the doors of the container flapped open - so that was what Fraser'd been up to - and they rolled out and fell several feet into cold water.

It seemed they were always falling into water, but then in this situation the alternatives were either concrete or metal, so really he should be grateful.

After that there was swimming, which he hated, and shooting, and ducking under and jumping off of things, and he was seriously getting too old for that shit.

But they got out alright and they got Cucho, and none of those things stayed with him as long as that single "fuck," which said something about how obsessive he was becoming.

But see, how could he know that it was the touching thing that did the trick? How could he know that Fraser hadn't just really thought they'd die this time, and decided to do something reckless before he went? For all he knew, he could've accidentally kneed Fraser in the nuts – Supermountie or not – _fuck_ was the only adequate response to that particular brand of excruciating pain.

So he had to do it again. Had to grab Fraser back at the station and pull him into the broom closet and accidentally stumble into the guy, which earned him a clearly pronounced _God damn it!_

Ray was going to hell in a hand cart; it had to be sinful to get this turned on by blasphemy.

And he was only doing it to hear Fraser swear, he wasn't just randomly groping his partner, because that would be weird. Weirder.

He tried not to think about what Fraser made of the whole situation. The guy took it remarkably well, considering that his partner had first been exhaustingly irritating for weeks and now all of a sudden had grown extremely, ridiculously clumsy.

Fraser'd just curse when Ray walked into him (…fell on him, accidentally touched him reaching for stuff, spilled liquids on him and then wiped it off again…) and then flush red and afterwards pretend none of it ever happened, which might very well be the only sane solution, if there was one.

Except, all of a sudden the thought struck him - while he was reaching for his car keys that he'd left on the dashboard on Fraser's side of the car and then knocked down reaching for his plastic cup which he'd also placed in front of Fraser – it struck him that if Fraser was anything like the genius Ray _trusted_ him to be, no way was he buying this.

A random onlooker might be fooled, but Fraser was at the receiving end of a whole lot of niggling and pushing and prodding and - he had to face it - groping, that only a person with a brain the size of Turnbull's would believe was accidental.

Fuck, he'd crossed the line this time.

They were in a car on a stake-out in the middle of the night, waiting for Roy Nicholas to come out of hiding and visit his old ma (this one still alive), and Ray was stretched across Fraser's lap reaching for car keys that he could have just asked the guy to bend down and get for him.

He froze mid motion, his one hand reaching for the keys, the other hand halfway to its destination which had apparently been – shit, Ray get a fucking grip – Fraser's crotch.

And then another thought popped up in his head: If his own amazing powers of deduction were right, and Fraser knew, then what the hell _was_ he thinking about all of this? What could he possibly be thinking other than…

…With the all the yelling and screaming going on inside his head, and the blood rushing in his ears, it was a wonder he heard it, because Fraser barely said it, just whispered it, breathed it out.

And there was some weird parallel universe thing going on, had to be, because that was not the correct response to your partner not so accidentally touching your inner calf and thigh.

Ray would bet money that Fraser had never said that before in his life.

He didn't know whether to feel guilty or triumphant about that, mostly because he practically had his face in Fraser's lap and was plenty busy feeling horny as hell.

He suddenly caught the scent of Fraser's arousal, a heavy familiar/unfamiliar smell. He heard himself inhaling deeply, and the sound made him aware of Fraser's breath, quick and shallow, breathed out hard into the small hairs at the nape of his neck.

He couldn't look up because he didn't want to see Fraser's face, so he looked down at his hand resting high on Fraser's thigh.

God, the guy was practically boiling; he could feel the heat of him through the serge which had to mean that inside the suit Fraser was roasting.

Ray leaned a little and a little more, and then his face, his mouth, was on Fraser's cock, hard and hot and impressively big beneath those ridiculous pants.

And then Fraser said it again, louder this time: "_Jesus fucking Christ_, Ray, _Jesus_…"

Fuck, shit, he was not ready for this, he was not fucking prepared for that, he was gonna come in his pants, and this whole situation set a new standard to the freaky or embarrassing or erotic in Ray's life.

It pretty much just set some new standards altogether.

He closed his eyes and didn't sense anything but the scent of male arousal and the heat against his face and his own pulse loud in his ears, so when Fraser touched his hair it was such a shock that it startled him into sitting upright, looking Fraser straight in the eyes.

Fraser looked just as shocked, but he also looked – and it took Ray a moment to place it because he had never seen it before – Fraser looked really, really turned on. Flushed and embarrassed, and really fucking horny.

It struck him how much this scenario reminded him of the first time he'd touched Stella on the outside of her damp cotton panties while they were making out in her car, and she'd looked up at him all surprised, and glassy-eyed and aroused, and had taken him home.

He suspected that Frannie and all her psychology books might have something interesting to say about that, but he wasn't gonna ask.

"Ray?"

His dick answered that dark voice before his mouth did, straining against the metal zipper of his jeans.

"Yeah?"

"Ray, can we go home now?"

"You wanna go to the consulate?"

"No, Ray, can we go home. To your place."

Fuck the stake-out. Fuck Roy Nicholas. He was fucking going to fuck Fraser. This was really happening, being so painfully hard he didn't even have to pinch himself to be convinced.

Fraser bent down and retrieved the car keys with a strained sound. He handed them to Ray, who dropped them, and after picking them up again took three tries to actually get the car started, but Fraser gracefully didn't comment on that.

So, there it was. He took Fraser home and spread him out on his couch and blew him. And if he wanted to grab Fraser's ass and push his hips upwards, push his dick into his own mouth - even if it made him choke and cough a little – he could.

Because Fraser wanted it too.

This was the best discovery since he'd discovered hockey. No, fuck that, better. Much better, because he didn't remember much about high school, but he did remember enough to know that sucking dick had never been this exhilarating before, never this good.

And if whining for hours or an awkward grope on a stake-out, or in the broom-closet, maybe gave him a muttered _Damn _at best, blowing Fraser opened up a whole bag of "God… fuck… Ray… damn"s.

Which, incidentally, made him tease the crap out of the poor guy, because he kept replacing his hand with his mouth, crawling back up Fraser’s body to ask "What? What did you say?" wanting to catch all of it.

After that he had high hopes for the fucking. In many ways, but also in the way of making Fraser swear.

Turned out it held up in every possible way but exactly that.

Because pushing inside Fraser, leaning over his sweat slicked back to put his lips between his shoulder blades, to listen, _he couldn’t shut the fuck up himself_…

He swallowed hard and tried to bite back on the kind of dorky sounding groans, but he couldn’t.

It was way, way too good. Better than it had been in… Better than ever.

The strong, smooth muscles of Fraser's back were moving underneath him, flexing to push back against his hips. Ray slid his hands down to touch the ass he'd been ogling for months, and felt the skin stretched tight just above his dick inside Fraser, and right there and then lost any hope of being able to hear anything, because he let out his own string of curses and had to move and had to make noise because _Jesus fucking Christ. _

And Fraser, although mostly quiet, was definitely into it, sweating and breathing hard and fucking himself slowly, moving back against Ray's thrusts.

Ray noticed how Fraser was struggling to control his arms, the way they kept almost collapsing under him, and he got it that Fraser was fighting hard not to lose it completely, and between the tight, hot, hard, sheer greatness of moving inside Fraser he got an equally mind-blowing kick from knowing that Fraser was liking this, was loving this - was maybe loving, definitely liking _him_.

Later, after coming and sleeping and talking and fucking and then sleeping again, Ray lay awake and watched Fraser dozing naked in his bed, and thought about how he'd figured out now what it was about making Fraser curse that turned him on like nothing else, and how it all came down to one thing:

__

_Fraser lost it._

…Now Ray, he lost it on a pretty regular basis. Mostly over Fraser, but he also occasionally lost it over Stella, work, hockey, Dief doing disgusting things to his ear. And he'd just pick it up again, pull himself together and brush himself off – nothing new there.

_Fraser_ losing it used to be a once-in-every-millennia kind of thing, - Ray could've used a Big Bang metaphor, but in light of recent events that might be a little corny, and anyway he didn't want to be accused of actually knowing anything about either metaphors or astronomy.

But that was it. That was the reason right there. This was why Fraser swearing had the same effect on him as breasts (any breasts!) had had when he was thirteen: Fraser could be Mr. Manners dealing with Turnbull, interviewing murderers and even chasing down suspects, _but Ray could make him lose it_.

He was the guy that could make Fraser lose it.

Which, he had to admit; back in the whining days was a little worrying, but now, good God.

So maybe he could stop whining and walking into Fraser, now that he had other means to get his measure.

And if Fraser was up for doing the partners thing (the _other_ partners thing), maybe he should consider getting that "Gay for the Mountie!" tattoo, and yeah, maybe they would end up with a few split lips for it, maybe end up in a hut somewhere on the fucking North Pole.

But Ray figured it'd be more than worth it.


End file.
